


Reciprocity

by ShirleyCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, don't look at me, in that order, set somewhere during S1 or S2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyCarlton/pseuds/ShirleyCarlton
Summary: John is drunk. Sherlock is sober. Also, John desperately craves a blowjob and does not refrain from complaining out loud about it. Then Sherlock offers one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t ask me why I wrote a fic that is set during S1/S2. This story just popped into my head, so I simply had to write it. (Maybe because these two lovesick idiots were so much more carefree back then?) Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)
> 
> Trivia: this is the first time I’ve written something in the present tense, so in that respect it was a bit of an experiment. But I think it turned out alright. :D
> 
> Many thanks again to my long-time beta [mydogwatson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson) and also to my new friend [thelanding](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thelanding) for her indispensable suggestion regarding the final paragraph, as well as to my dear friends Amber and Jonathan for the Brit-pick and all sorts of British phraseology advice along the way, respectively!

John sways on his feet a little as he walks through the pleasantly cool London night air. He hasn’t been this drunk in a while. Not that he’s completely blotto; nothing like that. But still definitely flushed enough to regret it in the morning.

(Better not dwell on that right now.)

As to be expected, it takes him several attempts before he manages to insert his key into the keyhole properly so that the front door to 221 Baker Street opens. He enters the downstairs hallway, glad at the numbing effect of the ethanol molecules in his blood, which make the world buzz almost pleasantly around him. However, the double whisky has barely managed to wash away the embarrassment of his date walking out on him halfway through their dinner (which was rather the idea of his resorting to liquor to begin with).

Good God. If he ever wants to get another leg over in his life, he should really start trying to remember his dates’ names and basic personal information, like profession. (Don’t ask after the pupils if she’s not a bloody teacher, Watson.)

God, he feels like an arse.

But why do these damn women natter on at the speed of light – drowning everything they say in a sea of details – anyway? It’s not that Sherlock, for instance, never does that, but at least he compensates by being silent for a few hours after rattling off one of his deductions. Also, what he has to say is usually actually interesting. And relevant.

John drags himself up the stairs as if the task is a specific punishment for his cockup: with great effort but very little enthusiasm. It’s not as if there’s any kind of reward at the top. He needs to get off, for God’s sake, not spend another evening locked inside, with his crazy flatmate huddled over a microscope or some other unspeakable experiment. (Or torturing his violin. Or shooting holes in the wall.)

He opens the door, however, to Sherlock standing stock still in front of the window, looking out onto the street. Not sulking – his stance is relaxed, not tense. (And also, he does his usual sulking mostly in a horizontal position, while staring at the backrest of the sofa.)

Thank heavens not sulking. If anyone is going to sulk right now, it’s John and not his idiot brilliant flatmate, thank you very much.

(The possibility of them both sulking simultaneously crosses his mind, but John quickly pushes that rather horrific idea aside.)

“Good evening,” John hears himself say, in spite of his plan to sulk. The words sound like a slow motion version of themselves and he briefly cringes at the idea of Sherlock calculating his precise alcohol intake from the degree of slur in his speech.

Sherlock turns around and lifts the corners of his mouth. “John.”

“Don’t--” John holds up his hand – less steadily than he’d hoped. “Don’t you _dare_ dedoo… deduce a _thing_ , okay? _Yes_ , my evening was shitty, _yes_ , she walked out on me and _no_ , it clearly looks like I’m not getting any, tonight. Without _you_ even intervening, imagine that!” His voice has risen rather higher than he intended, but he finds he doesn’t give a flying fig. “See? You’re getting more and more efficient!”

Sherlock frowns. “How did I--”

“Don’t ask me _how_ , Sherlock. Living with you, being your _Conductor of Light_ , has apparently _somehow_ robbed me of my ability to score, alright? God! I never thought I’d ever crave a shag this badly. It’s driving me proper _mad_! I haven’t had one in, let me see, well, I’ve lost count really of how long it’s been.” He points a finger at Sherlock. “ _That’s_ how long it’s been.” He really is more drunk than he has been in at least as long as he hasn’t gotten laid. “Or a simple blowjob; that would do very nicely as well!” he adds, as an afterthought.

He should probably shut up now, but his speech centre seems to have detached from the rest of his brain and developed a mind of its own. Also, he is angry and frustrated, which leads to him not caring very much. “Dear God above,” he grouses aloud. “Just a freaking blowjob, is that too much to ask? Apparently, yes.”

He has walked into the kitchen, not really knowing what it is he thinks to find there.

Sherlock is still standing silently by the window, facing him from across the living room.

John leans back against the worktop, suddenly tired. “I know you will ridicule me for wanting this, _needing_ this,” he mutters, “but--”

“I’m not ridiculing you.” Sherlock looks at him calmly, unmoved. Then, raising his eyebrows, he states, “I could give you one.”

“What?”

They must have changed the subject without John noticing.

“A blowjob,” Sherlock answers, utterly deadpan.

John laughs. Surely Sherlock is pulling his leg, just because John went and got drunk and is oversharing a little – well, a _lot._

Sherlock, meanwhile, remains completely serious. “I could give you one, if you promise never to complain about the state of the kitchen table ever again, in which case, I will give you a blowjob, right here, right now.”

Jesus Christ.

Sherlock casually looks away to something on the side table, as he pushes his tongue against one cheek.

John is too intoxicated to come up with a witty response. All he manages is, “Sherlock, surely you can’t… can’t be serious. You’re evidu--, evidently trying out a new sense of humour, right? Either that, or I’m halloo-“ _(What was that bloody word again?)_ “Hallucinating!” He laughs again and then momentarily forgets what he is laughing about.

Sherlock just smirks at him.

John has some very specific feelings for his flatmate and although he tries hard on a daily basis to ignore them, he is very well aware of them. And he knows that they align perfectly well with the realm of blowjobs.

But that’s just fantasy, right? This cannot be real.

Sherlock, however, is very much walking over to him in a straight line, and then, shockingly, drops to his knees in front of him, never breaking eye contact.

John goes silent, and swallows. “Seriously, Sherlock…” he mumbles, but he doesn’t do anything to stop him, unable to move a muscle. His hands seem glued to the worktop on either side of his hips. Sherlock just keeps blandly looking up at him as he fishes the condom John had hoped to put to use tonight from John’s left trouser pocket. How in the devil’s name Sherlock even knew it was there John doesn’t ask.

Then Sherlock carefully unbuckles John’s belt.

In spite of his inebriated state (and in spite of the fact that this is all a very, _very_ bad idea), John’s cock springs to attention as it’s freed from trousers and pants – only inches away from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock effortlessly rolls on the condom, before looking up coyly at John one more time, as if checking for any last objections. When none manage to leave John’s mouth, Sherlock parts his lips… and goes for it.

 * * * * *

Two days have passed with John and Sherlock managing to largely avoid and ignore each other.

On John’s part, the avoiding is by no means intentional, though it is rather convenient to the less courageous side of him. He’s not so sure about Sherlock. John had to leave for an early shift the next morning before Sherlock was up and found an empty flat on his return. The following day, Sherlock seemed absorbed in some experiment taking place under his microscope all afternoon, while John ran some errands and did the grocery shopping (each time when he came back in, finding Sherlock still at his microscope), before he left to the pub for a meal with Greg – as he’s been doing every other Thursday since Greg’s wife left him again.

He sits opposite his friend in the beer garden, enjoying the uncharacteristically warm evening sun and meanwhile trying not to think of Sherlock’s mouth – a continuous attempt that has been largely unsuccessful over the past two days.

“So what do you think?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Well, would you do it if you were me?” Greg looks at him with desperate puppy eyes.

Crap. John has no idea what they are talking about. “Well,” he starts, “you _could_ , of course, you know, _but_ on the other hand…” He waves his wrist vaguely.

“Aww, man, you’re just no use, are you?” Greg says in mock disappointment. (Or is it?).

“Know what? I think we both need another pint,” John offers, glad for an excuse to get up from their table.

As he waits at the bar for their glasses to be filled, he once more considers his options with his flatmate. Some of those options fall in the ‘wise and sensible things to do’ category, and others in the ‘I don’t care and just want to get off with Sherlock Holmes, _badly_ ’ category. Then there is also of course the ‘what if he never wants anything to do with me ever again’ category, which invariably brings him back to the first one.

It dawns on him that they should really talk, either way.

How this conversation is going to go, he has no idea. All he knows is, it’s not going to take place as long as he hangs around in this pub with Greg. And he’s honestly not sure how much more time he can bear to spend in limbo.

As he brings the pints back to the table where Greg sits waiting, John resolves to leave right after this round. Only this prospect gives him the strength to sit through the rest of their conversation and respond like a proper friend to what Greg says.

               * * * * *

As soon as he enters 221B, John is met with the muggy heat inside the flat. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. His bedroom door is closed.

With a sigh, John walks into the kitchen to throw some cold water over his face.

Still too hot.

In a few swift movements, he takes off his shirt and throws it over the back of his armchair, still standing at the tap. He briefly closes his eyes.

“Good evening, John.”

John starts vehemently at the sound of Sherlock’s voice right next to him. “Oh. Hi.”

Sherlock leans in to fill a glass with tap water.

_Shirtless, as well._

“You alright?” John asks. He has no idea what else to say.

“Yes, just brill. You?” Sherlock smiles at him, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Casually and relaxed, he finishes his glass in one go and puts it down.

John clears his throat. It is now or never. On the spur of the moment, he chooses the more daring approach. “Sherlock, what you did to me two nights ago, would you do it again, if I reciprocated?”

“So you liked it,” Sherlock says, with a faint smirk, leaning against the fridge.

“Well, that is a bit of an understatement,” John replies. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and his heart hammering in his chest, but that is all part of the deal, isn’t it? As terrified as he is right now, of rejection, of losing his friendship with Sherlock, he secretly thrives on this: danger. (Although in this case of a rather different kind than usual.) He keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock, desperate for any hint of how he is going to respond.

To John’s shock, Sherlock agrees with a simple “alright” and the unbuckling of his belt – not taking his eyes off John.

John blinks, briefly looking down at Sherlock’s fly and back up at his face again. There is a spark there, behind that impassive mask, and maybe something of a silent plea, even. _Sherlock actually wants him to do this._

There’s John’s answer to the question that has been floating around the back of his mind for months. Sherlock is sexually attracted to him, to some degree, at least.

John swallows as he lowers himself onto his knees, not far from the spot where Sherlock did the same two nights prior. He’s quite sure he’s never had this much adrenalin in his system.

 _Why the kitchen, both times?_ he briefly wonders, smiling inwardly. Which is a ridiculous thing to think about, as he is about to give another man a blowjob, that will change _everything_. He focuses on getting Sherlock’s trousers down and rolling on a condom, without a trace of hesitation. He’s seen it being done enough to know how to proceed. He’s felt each sort of touch and stroke enough to know the effect.

So he applies all of them.

And as he sees all those familiar sensations play out over Sherlock’s face – in a very _un_ familiar way – and hears the desperation they invoke in his soft moans, and feels the wavering of his legs as they struggle to support him, for sheer bliss, John can only wonder how they never did this before. Sherlock is desperate for John’s touch. And John is more than willing to give him what he wants. He marvels at how Sherlock is even more beautiful like this, as he feels himself fall incredibly more in love with him.

Sherlock comes with a brief, intense groan; the most exquisite sound John has ever heard.

Unsure of what to do next, exactly, John hesitantly gets to his feet, a giant smile threatening to burst through from just below the surface of him.

Sherlock has not yet opened his eyes, still hazy and worn out, his head lolling back slightly. He’s obviously less alert now, which makes John dare to remain standing this close to him: near enough to feel his body warmth and to study the tiny hairs on his jaw – which he does. John studies also Sherlock’s closed eyes and the little wrinkles between his eyebrows, until he wonders whether Sherlock is really not aware of his proximity. Concluding that he must be, in spite of his spent state, John deduces that Sherlock must be okay with it, then. Probably not for long, though. John decides to furtively enjoy the moment while it lasts.

Just then, he becomes aware of the fact that Sherlock’s cock is becoming flaccid and the condom is about to slip off. John rests a hand on Sherlock’s hip so as not to startle him, before whispering, “I’m just going to take this off for you, alright?” After carefully, though somewhat clumsily, removing the condom with his other hand (not wanting to move the one on Sherlock’s hip), he sloppily throws the thing in the sink behind him.

Then, with that one hand still touching Sherlock, it is suddenly very easy to casually add his other hand and to rest it slightly higher on Sherlock’s other flank.

John is nowhere near as inebriated as he was on Tuesday, but the pints he drank with Greg do help to lessen his reservations. He holds Sherlock in what is not quite a hug (but what, then?) and he guesses that Sherlock must be okay with this, too, at least for now, because his breathing stays calm and does not become shallow. Almost like he’s breathing the sensation in. He doesn’t open his eyes; he seems to be simply… trusting, waiting.

“You are so beautiful,” John hears himself whisper breathlessly. He would never have said that if he’d been sober.

He would also never have given Sherlock tender kisses on his cheek, but he does now.

When Sherlock opens his eyes a crack and looks at him from the corner of his eye, John’s heart skips a beat. With bated breath, he waits for Sherlock to tell him to bugger off and get away from him – but he doesn’t. In this complete silence, during which John contemplates the consequences of Sherlock pushing him away, he realises that not ever being allowed to touch him again might actually be preferable to Sherlock expecting the two of them to simply give each other meaningless blowjobs every now and then from now on. The thought breaks his heart, making him recognise how deep in he is.

He might as well risk it all now.

He presses another kiss to Sherlock’s jaw, gently splaying his left hand around Sherlock’s neck, and it almost feels natural, as if they’ve always been doing this. Maybe simply because he’s dreamed about it so often.

He wants _this_ , or nothing.

Amazingly, Sherlock is letting him caress him, nuzzle him, touch him more intimately than John was doing mere moments earlier, with his cock in his mouth, as weird as it is.

Then, slowly, Sherlock turns his head towards him and opens his eyes, their mouths now only centimetres apart. John is aware of his own chest rising and falling more rapidly than usual. It is the only part of him that still dares to move. He stares at Sherlock, hoping his question is visible in his eyes.

_Is this okay?_

_Please tell me this is okay._

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down to John’s mouth a couple of times and then, suddenly, their lips are touching. It’s a proper kiss, wonderful and exciting and perfect in every way.

Thankfully, it lasts an eternity. Galaxies form and disappear while their mouths merge.

Afterwards, John ventures, “I didn’t want a blowjob, I wanted _you_.”

Sherlock’s shyness is betrayed by his sudden business-like manner. “I hoped you’d say that.” His eyes dart away, seeming to avoid John.

Something slowly starts to dawn on him. “Wait, was this all a _setup_?” He’s not upset, exactly, seeing as the outcome is what it is. At least not _exceedingly_ so – which is probably silly of him, but he’s simply gotten _used_ to Sherlock’s standard approach to pretty much all interpersonal issues being of a somewhat manipulative nature.

“Well, I finally came to my senses. Not being in a relationship with you was actually more distracting than the alternative. All I had to make sure was whether you could be interested in sex with a man. I wasn’t sure you were.”

John’s mouth hangs open as he processes what Sherlock just said. “So… you sabotaged all my dates to be sure that I would become sufficiently sexually frustrated, so you could offer me a blowjob?”

“Er…” There is a short silence, which Sherlock apparently attempts to overcome by frowning very hard. Eventually, he tersely states, “Pretty much, yes.”

The insufferable twat.

Still, as John looks at him and sees _that mouth_ that was kissing him just now (and that he fantasised about almost non-stop for two days), that mouth with which Sherlock just admitted that he wants to be in a relationship with him, John becomes aware once more of one specific part of him still straining against his underwear. He then feels a mischievous grin tug fondly at the corners of his mouth. “Well, then what are you waiting for?”


End file.
